


Pas De Deux

by honeynovella



Series: Nightingale [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Ballet, F/M, Hetalia, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Pre-WW2, Pre-War, Romance, WW2, World War II, so self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14120763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeynovella/pseuds/honeynovella
Summary: The year is 1938. No longer can Elizaveta Héderváry stay in Budapest when her dreams are pulling her towards a century old stage in Moscow. However, it is when a man named Roderich Edelstein invites her to Vienna to perform that Elizaveta becomes involved in the half-lit world of espionage and political conspiracy rife with love, intrigue, and betrayal. Nazi ballet enthusiasts, spies in her dormitories, sitting next to assassins at dinner... No longer is she the ballerina with dreams of change-not when her life depends on stability.Before there was war, there was hope, change, and ballet.





	1. Prologue

It was cold for 4 years. Never did the world feel so freezing as it did during the Great War. Even the summers were filled with spiteful rain and chilling mud. And they were always covered with mud.

But ever after hearing about how hellish war had been, he still felt proud. The men warned him this tragedy was nothing to be proud of. That this was the worst thing to happen to their powerful continent in terms of politics, money, and land. He didn't understand them—how could they say these things about war when his father had come back so strong and fit he could climb on top of the man he loved without knocking him over?

It was fun playing with their dad. His older brother had told him he was too old to play around—seven was a big year for him. He was finally going to start growing, according to his father. It was a miracle he hadn’t started growing yet seeing as his older brother, Gilbert, was shooting up like a plant. It frustrated him but his father had always sat him on his lap and pressed his face next to his, saying, “Don’t worry, Ludwig. You’ll be the strongest out of the two of you soon enough. Give it time.”

So he gave it time. He gave it a month and was disappointed. Gilbert had teased him brutally still, especially after Gilbert started school that year. Ludwig was still at home, boredly playing with the train set his father had got for him after they’d gotten money from a veteran group.

But sometime in the months after he had turned eight and started to understand the world a little better, they moved into a nicer house. There were more than three rooms in this one—in fact there were so many rooms Ludwig had gotten lost a few times already. Their father tried to explain this in the simplest terms, saying he had found a new job. His new job was speaking in a big group of men with the same beliefs as him. Eventually, their father had told them they would be the ones in charge of Germany. It made sense; his father was always telling them what to do and what not to do so it made sense that he wanted to be in charge of their country.

When Gilbert changed school and Ludwig started they began to hang out more. Gilbert and him played together again, making all of the same friends. Ludwig still got the short end of the stick, always being “it” when they played tag or another game. But as long as he was with Gilbert, he figured it would be okay. 

Only when Ludwig turned eleven did he start to grow. Gilbert had already passed 160 centimeters and claimed that if Ludwig didn’t grow he’d be the same height until he was an old man. Finally, Ludwig was starting to sprout, so much so his father could no longer pick him up and put him on his lap. His father teased that the more he gained in height the less he gained in words. Ludwig didn’t find talking as easy as he had when he was younger—it seemed Gilbert always had something to say about his opinions. It was easier to keep to himself.

His father was holding meetings more often. Most times his father’s work friends were invited to their house for dinner. Ludwig liked the dinners their new maid, Alise, made for them. Alise was quiet like Ludwig too. She seemed to have a soft spot for him. After dessert she saved the leftover chocolate just for him. Aside from the food, though, the dinners were boring. He and Gilbert were told not to speak unless spoken to before every event by their father in his stern voice he used when he meant business. Gilbert usually kicked his legs under the table just to try to get a reaction out of him and get him in trouble with their dad. It never worked, and Ludwig sported bruises on his legs the next day. But even with those troubles, they were sent to bed early after dinner too. His father always dismissed them immediately afterwards while he and his colleagues stayed behind, drinking beer and wine and talking about politics Ludwig hadn’t been able to understand since he had first heard the word.

Alise usually tried to explain these things to him when she was putting him to sleep. She said some words in a funny way, but nothing too drastic. “They want drastic change,” she would say, dimming the lamp by his nightstand and sitting down on his bed with him. “It’s a decaying country we live in. We currently have democracy but some people don’t like it.”

Ludwig had nodded, thinking about the word democracy. He had heard it but it didn’t really make sense to him. “Do you like what my dad does?” Ludwig asked. If Alise liked it then maybe it was good. He was so unsure of his father’s line of work, he couldn’t figure out if it was something to brag about or not.

Alise had laughed uncertainly, like she was trying to find the right words to say. “Well,” she started, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes, “I want change like he does. But… we don’t always agree on everything. To be honest, I don’t think he’d like my idea of a perfect Germany. But it’s okay. In the end we both want the best for this beautiful land we call home.”

This had left Ludwig even more confused. Alise had kissed his forehead goodnight, shut off the lamp, and left him lying in the moonlight, eyes wide open, thinking about these changes they kept talking about. Alise would be in Gilbert’s room next, probably telling him he had done enough reading for one day and it was time to sleep. Gilbert liked Alise, but he dislike authority, so he’d rebel surely. But that night, Ludwig hadn’t heard anything other than the click of a lamplight and a quiet “goodnight.”

Later, on a cold October day only a week before Ludwig’s thirteenth birthday, his father had thrown Alise out, grabbing her by her stark blonde hair and stuffing her clothes into a bag. She had cried out, begging him to stop this and let her leave in peace. It was the first time Ludwig had seen his father so furious with anyone in his life. As his father dragged a protesting Alise down the hallway past his bedroom door, he had gotten up from his bed, swinging his legs around and opening the door a crack. He had seen Alise pushed down the stairs, stumbling, a crying mess. She was trying to say words but his father was pulling her along. When they reached the turn on the stairs that hid them from Ludwig’s vision, he had stepped out of his room. As he leaned over the railing to watch the scene play out, there was a hand on his back. He had whipped around and saw his brother looking down the stairs at Alise, horror etched into his features.

Ludwig heard his father yelling: “Fucking communist in my household! Doing the chores, putting my sons to bed!” he had yelled so loudly, people walking outside their house turned at the noise. “A Russian who changed her name from Anya to Alise?!” There was a thud and Ludwig saw Alise—or rather, Anya—thrown against the wall, an overflowing suitcase following after. The suitcase had hit her legs and she fell over, causing Gilbert’s grip on his shoulder to tighten. Their father then proceeded to the front door, opening it wide and gesturing for her to exit. “Get out of my house! Get out of my house, you filthy communist!”

Anya had raised her hand and said something in a breathless voice but was silenced by their father throwing a vase at her. She moved just in time and it shattered behind her. Quickly standing, she had taken her bag and stumbled out of the house, the door slamming after her.

Gilbert had sighed shakily at the sight of her. She turned around, looking back through the glass that framed their dark wood door. She had a bloody nose that was running down her chin along with tears staining her cheeks. Her hair was a knotted mess and her blue eyes pleading with them.

Ludwig took in the sight of her, shock causing his heart to shrivel, but too soon had Gilbert reacted by taking him by the hand and pulling him into his room. 

Ludwig had protested as the door close behind him. It was unusual for Gilbert to let him into his room. “What was that for?” he asked.

Gilbert shook his head, the same fearful look in his ruby eyes as it had been only a few moments before. He had whispered something so quietly Ludwig tilted his head to the side and said, “What?”

Gilbert had turned to look at him and sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. “I told dad,” he said, appalled by his words. He gripped his hair. “She said something about… about… God, I don’t know, the working class? She was a communist and I-I told dad.”

Ludwig hadn’t been sure why Gilbert, who was two years older than him and supposed to be tougher, was crying suddenly. He looked weak when tears fell down his pale face.

“But you didn the right thing,” Ludwig said, trying not to sound confused. “She would’ve done bad things for dad.”

“ _Bad things_?” Gilbert said incredulously, his eyebrows coming together. “Ludwig, she put us to bed at night, made our meals, bought us candy… she loved us like an older sister!” He had gripped his hands into fists in the way he did when he wanted to punch something. That something was usually Ludwig. 

Ludwig had made a frustrated noise and crossed his arms. “I don’t know what to say then. I’m going to go back to my room.” He turned to leave, unsure what to make of the conversation. Before he had taken a step towards the door, Gilbert had grabbed his arm and pulled him back around to face him. Ludwig reacted quickly, placing his hand on top of Gilbert’s and trying to force it off of him. Ludwig was growing fast now, but he still wasn’t quite as strong as Gilbert.

Gilbert’s furious red eyes spotted with tears looked down at him. His lips were drawn back into a scowl as he said, “Ludwig, not everything is black and white. Not everything is evil communists and honorable _Sturmabteilung_.”

Gilbert had looked at him with pleading eyes, the same way Alise—Anya—whatever that traitor’s name was—had looked at him only a few minutes prior. Ludwig, anger rising in his chest, had pushed Gilbert’s hand off of him and gave him one more angry look before storming out of his room and slamming the door behind him.

He had thrown out all the chocolate in the house later that night. It just made him sick to look at. 

…

She started ballet on her own. Her father didn’t push her. He didn’t even like to mention it. But she started anyways because she felt like it was something she had to do.

Her father, during a sober episode, had told her about her mother in Moscow. She was famous there in the little world of Russian ballet. He said after her thirtieth show, he had gotten the opportunity to meet her. She had promptly ordered him away with a sly smile adorned by plum purple lipstick and an amused look in her eyes. 

Of course he had come back for her, but even then she was surprised he didn’t get the hint. It was a chase that he didn’t want to give up. And so once he met her a third time, she promised a date before the next show.

She had always thought of her mother as sort of an idol. The pictures she owned of her were framed and dusted every day. She looked at her mother, head resting on arm, and thought about what it would be like to dance the way she did.

Her dad would never take her to the lessons. At the age of eight she taught herself how to take the bus into the city. When she didn’t have enough money for the bus, she worked in the vineyards across the dirt road from her house. There was such a large expanse of land to run around on, and ever since the neighbors had fired a few of their workers, they were shorthanded. She liked picking the vines and putting the grapes into the bucket. They always paid her fairly, giving her just enough for the bus and food for herself. After all the workers took off for the day, they even gave her dinner and a bunch of grapes to take back to her house. They knew her father was never sober enough to buy food, so she was in charge of bring food into the house.

One day, while cleaning the dust off of the china in the living room, she found a box labelled “dance things.” She had opened it to reveal all of the old costumes and clothes that had belonged to her mother when she was a ballerina. She took the pointe shoes and a few long practice skirts and stuffed them into a bag. For the next month, she worked double shifts at the vineyard until she had enough money for the bus for an entire year. 

And then, she was off.

Budapest was nice, especially seeing all the pretty women and well-dressed kids. Although they regarded her with disdainful and pitiful glances, she was so mesmerized by the city that there really was nothing to be afraid of. 

The ballet was hard at first, but once she started, she knew she couldn’t stop. Upon arriving, she hadn’t realized how expensive lessons were. But as soon as the older women found out her mother had been a ballerina in Moscow, she had let her join. “I’ll put it on your tab,” the woman had said, scribbling something down. She didn’t know what a tab was, so she just nodded. 

“And, what did you say your name was? Erzsébet?” the woman had asked.

“Elizaveta,” she replied. “Want me to spell it?”

The woman had shaken her head. “No, no. Just quickly get dressed for lessons. We’ll start in a moment.”

Elizaveta had been a chubby little girl until she started ballet. She figured it was due to her stuffing her face with grapes that grew in the vineyard and the wine she drank whenever she was over at the neighbors house. But as soon as she started ballet, she shed all of her baby fat as though it had never been there in the first place.

But the bruises were there too. And not from her father this time. This time, they were from falling over, having her laces too tight, or twisting her ankle trying to perfect her _pointe_. But whatever the reasons, she hated being covered in purple and gray marks all the time. What she hated even more was the drive back home after all of it was over.

Elizaveta imagine herself living somewhere where it was always sunny. Of course she would miss the vineyard across the street, but did it matter? She wouldn’t need it to make money anymore. She could perform for crowds, living in a big city, and become a celebrity like her mother had in Moscow.

One day, while Elizaveta was looking to shoplift in Budapest, a small world map had caught her eyes. It was new and crisp, its edges perfectly sharp. She had taken it and ran, the ballet lessons helping greatly by giving her a newfound stamina. As she had bitten into her apple, another shoplifted item, she studied the map. All the big cities on the map had been circled. The ones that caught her eyes were Paris, Berlin, and Moscow. Moscow was seemingly light years away from Budapest. She wondered what the weather was like thee. It was a humid summer day in Budapest, meaning it must’ve been a lot cooler in Moscow.

The map stayed in her pocket for a while, reminding her of the goal. Moscow repeated itself over and over again in her head like a broken record on repeat. When she was in the dusty vineyard, she could only think of snow-covered ground and pine trees growing up so high they looked like they could touch the sky. 

When she was thirteen, after a particularly brutal practice, Elizaveta had come home rubbing the map in between her fingers. As she opened the door, her father stormed up to her, yelling, asking her where she had gone during the day. She found it hard to believe he was getting angry at her for this now, especially since she’d been leaving the house on her own for five years. She brushed it off, setting her things down in order to speak to him. He seemed to become more upset by her explanation and grabbed her arm. The burning of his fingertips indicated this drunkenness. 

The map fell from the table as he threw her skinny body against the wall, face first, causing one of her infamous nose bleeds. This time, however, there was a sickening crack, and she fell to the floor, shielding herself from any other hits her father wanted to give her. After growing tired of pulling at long brown hair and ripped clothes trying to get Elizaveta to stand up, he hobbled off to his room on the far side of the house. 

Elizaveta had cried, touching her nose gingerly and inhaling sharply when she moved it too hard. Something in her stomach had told her it was broken so she she ran to the neighbors, map in hand, and banged on their door, begging for some type of help.

They had helped as best as any average human could. She was sure the man had medical experience after hearing him brag about saving a young boy’s life a while back. But the woman did all the work, quietly ignoring her husband’s words about how she was bandaging it “wrong.”

She slept at the neighbors that night, not bothering to change clothes or brush out her bangs. The couch was her bed and the moonlight her only entertainment. Not even ballet could get her mind away from the reality she felt she could never escape. Elizaveta had taken the map out of her pocket, saw the blood stains from her nose on it, and immediately tore it to shreds. 

_Moscow_ , she had thought, trying not to cry. _I don’t even like ballet that much._


	2. Kedves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Illusion is needed to disguise the emptiness within. ―Arthur Erickson**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by _El tiempo entre costuras_

**December 25th, 1937  
Budapest, Hungary**

Elizaveta was sick of hearing “ _Boldog Karácsonyt_ ” every time she took step on the icy road.

It wasn’t that she disliked the people’s friendliness. Nearly everyone was chattering away to one another and sprinkling in compliments here and there. A group of old women stood on the stairs of a house gossiping and tugging at their headscarves with their gloved hands. Young boys raced past her, chasing each other and sliding on their knees in the snow. A posse of girls about the same age as Elizaveta were all huddled close, ignoring the playful boys who threw snowballs at their feet. She wondered how they were wearing such stylish yet ridiculous shoes in this kind of weather. The snow reached her mid-calf and was still coming down.

She nodded her head at the men and women telling her “Merry Christmas.” Mostly, she wondered why they were outside in such brutal weather. It seemed like nothing kept them from going to their Christmas morning mass. Elizaveta, however, was also outside trudging along the sidewalks of Budapest in the snowy weather. Didn’t it make her the same as everyone else?

No. Whereas the people were going to mass, she was going to a mass of her own. The dance hall in the center of Budapest awaited her. The slippers in the bag strapped across her back yearned to get out.

She adjusted the bag and kept walking. She wore boots on her feet and a hat on her head. A large woolen overcoat was shrugged over her shoulders. Elizaveta never fit into the crowd of city men and women who floated down the streets in their classy dresses and tight waves of hair plastered to their heads, held back by bobby-pins and ties. Her hair was hastily brushed into a ponytail that tickled the back of her neck. She didn’t even own a tube of rouge lipstick to prove she could have been from the city. But not even lipstick could save her from looking like an outsider. Everyone who looked at her knew she was from somewhere where the trees were taller than the houses and the smell of a smoky fire beat out the fumes of an automobile. Elizaveta kept her head down and drug her feet through the snow. Her slippers begged to be released.

Elizaveta turned a corner and was greeted by a cart of newspapers being operated by a man who waved the paper in her face. She caught some words about the government and the inner city, but drowned out the rest of his yelling. Visions danced across her mind like ballerinas leaping across the stage; her high was so close. _Two more blocks_ , she encouraged herself.

The snow started to fall again just as she finished her jog towards the studio. It was empty aside from Marsca Sándorné, the old woman who watched over it. On her head was a small lace cap. The lace covered her eyes in a thin, translucent layer of fabric. She wore a heavy overcoat around her small, fragile body. When Elizaveta entered, Marsca’s eyes flickered up to reveal the ice blue that was identical to the snow outside. Marsca scowled and looked back down at the newspaper resting in her lap. Her wrinkled face couldn’t afford to frown anymore, yet Marsca persisted. “You shouldn’t be wearing such rags on one of the holiest days of the year, Eliza,” she chided in her thick southern dialect. Marsca had lived in the Great Plains for almost her entire life. She only moved to the city after her husband died. And so, Marsca was known as the local bitter old woman.

Eliza didn’t mind Marsca. She ignored her words and stripped her coat down to reveal her slightly too tight leotard with her quarter length sleeves. She buttoned up the bottom two of three buttons. The skirtElizavetawore was made of soft black fabric, the ends touching the skin right above her ankles. She could feel Marsca’s glare on her.Elizavetawas used to Marsca’s constant nagging and scolding; if anything, it was comforting to have a constant in her life. 

“How was Mass?” Elizaveta asked, as she untied her snow boots and kicked them off. She opened her bag and gently pulled the faded pink slippers from the secure spot they called home. She sat down and began to untie the ribbon.

Marsca huffed. “Maybe you would know if you bothered to go. I can’t believe you can disregard the Lord. This generation has no respect,” she scolded. Her hands were wrought together in her lap. Elizaveta glanced at the headline―it was something about the national affairs. It seemed like that’s all it ever was these days. 

Elizaveta smirked and finished lacing up her slippers. “Times are different, Marsca,” she replied with a hint of love in her voice. Marsca was harmless, and Elizaveta enjoyed the old woman more than she found her annoying. “Many people are finding they don’t have the time to see the Lord every Sunday. That doesn’t mean they don’t love him―it just means their relationship is deepened because now they can talk to the Lord when they are doing things in their everyday life.”

“God is not an everyday person, Eliza. He should be honored in the Mass. You should know this,” Marsca argued.

Elizaveta clicked her tongue and stood up, her feet flat. “When the Lord enters your life during the small occurrences, like visiting the market or going to sleep, then hasn’t the Lord become your life? One day out of the week versus the rest of your life is a huge ratio, Marsca.”

Marsca huffed and crossed her arms. At times like this, Elizaveta found it hard to envision this chubby, elderly woman as a young ballerina. In her youth, Marsca had danced for her local theatre and dance company. However, when she was eighteen, just a year younger than Eliza, she had settled down with her husband. Marsca never talked about having any children―it seemed like too touchy of a subject to bring up. She had had pictures of unfamiliar children on top of her little desk-like table. Elizaveta never asked about them.

Seeing as Marsca was squared away, Elizaveta decided to take to the studio. It was cold and dark, especially during the winter, but just being in that dusty room made something in Elizaveta’s heart grow warm with passion and love. She lifted herself onto her toes and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She smoothed out her skirt and turned her cheek; her jaw was more prominent than usual, and the skin on her neck was taut. She sighed deeply and let the air flow through her body, through her bloodstream and fingertips until it settled inside her lungs.

Elizaveta didn’t like watching herself dance. She was grateful it was dark when she started the first movements. _A la seconde. Assemblé._ They weren't just words―they were spells which moved her body in ways only she was able to. No step was ever the same, and maybe that’s the reason why she stayed on her toes. She had to be ready because the world wouldn’t stop moving, and she would never stop her dancing. Not for a second.

… 

**January 3rd, 1938  
The outskirts of Budapest, Hungary**

Her world stopped moving when she got a letter for the first time in her life.

Elizaveta brushed out her hair in the mirror, pulling the messy light brown strands down and down with the brush until the waves were less wavy and no hair was sticking out from her scalp. She pulled the hair out of her face and brushed a piece of hair behind her left ear. Then, she took the hair on her right and let it rest on her shoulder. For a moment she caught a glimpse of an older version of herself, one where she could afford curlers and brets to decorate her hair. A sigh escaped her lips and she shook her head, letting the illusion of fashion fall away.

When she exited the small washroom and padded into the kitchen, she heard thuds and cracks resounding outside the window. Elizaveta saw her father swinging an axe down against a chunk of wood. It split and the piece fell on either side of him. She examined his glistening tan skin and the way he ran his fingers through his lengthy brown hair. He was weary; she looked away.

On mornings like this, Elizaveta wished she lived in the city, away from the expanse of farmlands that seemed like an endless sea she’d lived in for her entire life. She looked on the counter and saw a half empty bottle of whiskey. 

Eliza looked away and then quickly walked to the radio, twisting the knob and tuning into the nearest station. A cheery man’s voice spoke through the speakers. “Good morning Budapest, and happy New Year to all of those who are still celebrating a fantastic start to 1938!”

She snorted and went back to the kitchen, fishing through the cabinets to find the bread. _Fantastic is one way to put it_ , she thought sarcastically. Outside, the sound of wood being cracked in half was much less audible. Some music started to come through the speakers after a few general announcements, andElizavetaturned to look at the radio, a smile creeping up on her face. She tiptoed over to the radio and turned the volume down ever-so-slightly. _Father’s headache is going to be even worse if he hears this_ , she thought. She stepped around the kitchen and pretended she was in a dance club in New York, far away from the outskirts of Budapest.

Sometimes, she felt like the music entered her soul and compelled her body to dance. And for once, she wasn’t dancing like a ballerina. She just danced like a normal girl. The grace and passion was given to her by the fingers that were placed onto chords and notes the instruments played. Perhaps she danced because she was so inspired by others or perhaps she was just selfish.

When the screaming trumpets and pounding drums died down, Elizaveta found herself leaning against the counter with a dumb smile plastered onto her face. Her fingertips gripped the counter tight as the smile started to drop from her face.

Eliza realized she was alone.

The cracking of wood resounded through the house.

She tapped her finger anxiously, trying to think of something else to do. Her lesson didn’t start until twelve o’clock and it wasn’t even nine yet. She turned to look out the window looming over the sink and saw the pile of wood that was slowly diminishing as time passed by; her father would come back in soon. Elizaveta sighed and turned back around, shaking her head, trying to think of something to do. Somewhere to go.

Another song came on the radio. Elizaveta stopped tapping her fingers and looked up. The girls’ practice, she thought. She rushed to her room, her mind racing. Marsca always talked about the young girls’ practice which ran on Mondays during the school’s lunch hours. She quickly rushed into her room and pulled on a skirt, blouse, and her warm boots. Her overcoat was draped loosely around her shoulders and her small bag with her slippers hit the side of her leg as she walked.A bus should come at noon, she thought. A fifteen minute train ride is too expensive.

When she rushed outside, the cold air bit at her exposed skin, and she shuddered. Her breath came out his puffs of white that resembled the snow on the ground.

Elizaveta stuffed her hands into her pocket and lightly jogged out to the dirt road that lay a few dozen meters from her house. A cold wind swept her mousy brown hair across her face and made her skirt whip around her legs. She looked behind her and saw the expanse of lush green fields of dormant grape vines. Trees dotted the yellowing land and the distant crack of axe hitting wood matched the beat of her heart. The gray sky covered the land in eternal gloominess, her green eyes the only light that flickered. Everything was gray and dead.

She turned back around and faced the street. And though she was a few dozen meters away from them, she could see the lights were off in her neighbors’ houses. Her feet started to move, blindly following the road towards the inner edge of town. The bus would find her there.

… 

It started to snow when the bus entered the city. Children chased the back of the slow moving bus and grabbed onto the back, sliding their way down the street on the bumper of the bus. They cheered each other on. Elizaveta smiled at them. Snowy days in Budapest were the best kind of days; all of the children ran outside to cause a commotion, and all of the adults stayed huddled inside. She wished to be just a little bit younger so she could experience the joy of living in Budapest as a child. 

When she got to the studio, the snow had already piled up to her mid-shin. She quickly jumped over the threatening piles of snow and rushed inside the studio. She figured the buses wouldn’t be running again until the snow was gone. 

_Good_ , Elizaveta thought. _That’s a perfect excuse to not go home._

Elizaveta tumbled in through the doorway, shaking the snowflakes out her clothes and hair. Marsca’s shocking blue eyes were wide when she saw Elizaveta. She sat at her desk in her usual attire, clutching a piece of paper in her shaky, withering hands. Elizaveta’s eyebrows came together.

“Marsca,” she started, her voice gentle and slightly amused. She had never seen the old woman look so shaken in her life. Had she not been amused, she would have been concerned. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”

Marsca shook her head dreamily. Elizaveta saw a dash of disbelief rush over he features as she held out the paper to Elizaveta. “A letter, Eliza,” she started in a quiet voice. “From Vienna.”

Elizaveta’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “Vienna?” she asked warily as she reached out to take the paper. “I don’t know anyone in Austria. Are you sure this is for me?” Her fingers brushed over the paper; it was thin and coarse.

“It was addressed to the studio, but it mentions you,” Marsca said, handing the paper over to Elizaveta. Elizaveta took the letter from her, her cold fingers shaky from the frigid air. She flipped the letter to the front to see a seal of sorts on the front of it. She opened it and began to read to herself.

_Dear Mrs. Sándorné,_

_Upon receiving your letter, we were pleased to hear from such a renowned teacher and former dancer. If this letter is any indication of your return to the national stage, coaching our young dancers perhaps, then we are grateful to have you back. If not, then thank you for you correspondence anyways, and know we anxiously and hopefully await your return._

_Your recommendation of Elizaveta Héderváry will not go unconsidered. Any protege of yours is skilled to a level beyond belief. But because our selection protocol requires us to witness the dancer in action, no decisions can be made about Ms. Héderváry until we see her talent. Henceforth, if she meets the requirements, she will begin her training in Vienna with a squad of 19 other girls._

_Training lasts a total of three months and shows will begin a week after formal training has been completed. We plan to have our first show in Prague, Czechoslovakia._

_Upon receiving this letter, expect us to visit Budapest three days afterward. We will hold evaluations in your place of choosing, mentioned in your letter as your renowned studio._

_Best wishes from the Vienna Ballet,_  
Roderich Edelstein  
Assistant Manager to the Ballet 

Elizaveta said the first thing which came to mind: “‘Assistant manager to the ballet’?”

Marsca promptly hit her over the head. Elizaveta jumped slightly and turned to frown at the older woman. “Eliza, that doesn’t matter. Look what I do for you! And all you can do is criticize his… his _title_. Good gracious, girl, thank goodness you’re a good dancer.”

Elizaveta smiled, ignoring Marsca’s harsh words, and threw her arms around the woman, pulling her into a deep hug, which, for once, Marsca did not resist. 

“Thank you,” Elizaveta breathed, her voice calmer than she thought it would be. Her heart was racing, words unable to form in her head. Vienna? Hadn’t she been there before as a baby? No, she wasn’t alive when her father worked there. She’d never left Budapest, much less the _country_ by herself. She would be with other girls, sure, but she didn’t know them. Not like she knew Marsca or her father. Did she know _any_ girls her age? Besides ballet, what did they do? Questions bounced off the walls of her head, making her even more light-headed than she had been before. 

_How am I gonna do this?_ she asked herself, still holding tight onto Marsca. Vienna is so far. Vienna is… well, it’s Vienna! Certainly not Budapest or St. Petersburg… or Leningrad at the time. 

_It’s certainly not Moscow either_ , she thought, disappointment rising in her chest. She knew it was stupid. She was acting so ungrateful for the chance to become a professional dancer, but hadn’t Moscow always been the goal?

_Vienna will be a stepping stone_ , she told herself, ignoring the cold discouragement running over her skin.

She pulled back, stiff from anticipation, excitement, and transience. Fear colored her pale, and her eyes locked with Marsca’s blue ones.

Marsca squinted at her. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

She shook her head. “No, no. Everything is just hitting me all at once,” she affirmed. She looked off, the mirror catching her eye. She did look pale. And skinny. Her father wasn’t making money as much as he used to and bread and grapes were all they had at the moment. Her face looked happy, though. Happy and skinny, and a ballerina, that’s for damn sure. For once, she felt like a ballerina.

“Vienna,” she whispered, looking back at Marsca, a smile dancing on her lips. “Why Vienna?”

Marsca waved the question away. “Because Russia does not deserve you. I know Moscow has always been your dream but… when your mother was there it was a different time. Besides, communism would not do well on your skinny body. Stalin already has a favorite ballerina, and it is not you.” She paused, thinking for a second. Her blue eyes glittered. “Well, at least not yet. When you get your first solo in Vienna, I’m sure he’ll come to like you.”

Elizaveta laughed, uncertain what to make of words she had just heard. Sure, Russia wasn’t the same, but neither was she. But she still beamed, although unsure of what to say. She exhaled heavily. “Marsca,” she started, her tongue tasting of honey and chocolate. However, Marsca hushed her before she could say anything. 

“Don’t thank me,” Marsca said, her wrinkles making her look suddenly soft. Marsca had always looked the part of a mean old woman, but for a second, she looked happy and peaceful. “You worked hard for this. Now, all you have to do is get them to like you.”

Elizaveta nodded, and Marsca gave her one more pat on the shoulder before walking away. The ghost of her hand stayed on Elizaveta’s arm. 

She hoped this man―assistant manager to the ballet―would like her. She hoped they all would like her.

**January 5th, 1938  
Budapest, Hungary**

Ever since the invitation to the ballet, she had been starstruck by the idea of being seen. So for the rest of her long days, Elizaveta tried to imagine what he would look like.

She had never been to Austria, had never seen the people or had any sort of interactions with any Austrians. Although it shared a border with Hungary and the two countries had been an empire together at one point, she still felt as though it was a universe away. Her mother had liked Salzburg and Linz according to her father. He had told her a few years back when he was experiencing a sober episode. She twisted the ends of her hair and tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. Butterflies weren’t supposed to be present in the wintertime.

Elizaveta had never left Hungary, much less the general area of Budapest. Well…that was a lie. Her family had lived in Leningrad...Petrograd? No―St. Petersburg. It was always St. Petersburg to her family. Still, she had been a newborn, only recalling the blur of snow when they had left for Hungary. But what really made her confused was, how was it that men from Austria had seen her dancing at recitals and asked her to join the national ballet? And was that allowed? Sure, Russia had always been her goal seeing as that was where her mother had danced, but perhaps Austria was more of a stepping stone. 

A girl’s foot slipped on the wooden floor and she was brought back to reality: morning practice with the younger girls. Elizaveta tiredly tapped the pen against the desk and marked down notes about the young girls who danced in slight disarray. Everyone was just a step out of sync with each other. Tchaikovsky droned on, clinging to the walls of the room like the stuffy air.

Sighing, Elizaveta bit her lip and scribbled down, _Eszter, improve form, practice fourth position_ en haut _of the arms._ Eszter stumbled into another girl, who Elizaveta had pinned as Sofija. Sofija huffed and pushed her away. Elizaveta wrote another note down: _Sofija, be kind._

But it still tickled the back of her mind like a pesky bug, biting at her until she gave it full attention.Elizaveta wondered if any of these girls would grow up and be chosen to travel for ballet like her. She tapped her foot and bounced her leg. The clock ticked six o’clock and the girls started to finish their dances just as Tchaikovsky died out. 

All of the girls immediately started to chatter, some rushing over to their hangers in a hurry to throw on their coats and arrive home before dinner, but most lingering in small groups. Elizaveta stood up from her chair behind Marsca’s desk and quickly walked over to the record player, taking the needle off of the record and turning to the girls. 

“Make sure you take your notes off of Madam Marsca’s desk and try to improve on your weak points in your free time,” Elizaveta said, trying to speak over their chatter. Most of them ignored her and just drifted to the desk as their autopilot told them. Eventually even the slowest of the little girls trickled out and Elizaveta was left alone in the empty studio once again. 

It was cold outside―freezing actually. While she waited for the frigid air to leave the room, she wrapped a sweater around herself and put the record back on. Tchaikovsky started once again. 

The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like Elizaveta. She stood flat-footed, turning her chest and looking over her shoulder. Elizaveta’s green eyes looked discolored in the warm lit room, but her classic mousy brown hair remained in its normal messy state.

Elizaveta pushed herself up on her toes, like she would if she were in her flats instead of her loafers. Her leg seemed to move by itself, drawing up her skirt and then kicking it out of the way. Her feet caught her from falling just inches from the mirror. Elizaveta looked up once more and closely examined her reflection. 

“I don’t look like me,” she mumbled to herself. Elizaveta’s eyes bounced over every mark in her skin. 

_Then what do you look like?_ she thought.

The ghost of freckles peeked through her pale skin. A strand of bright gold hair tickled her nose. Elizaveta brushed it away just as the door was kicked open and a gust of chilling air caused her thin skirt to fly against her legs. 

Eliza jumped away from the mirror, pulling the sweater closer around herself to shield the freezing air from touching her skin. She turned to examine the stout figure pushing the door close and was relieved to see it was Marsca.

“Marsca,” Elizaveta exhaled in a relieved voice. She quickly hurried over to her just as the door shut. Marsca was bundled up cozily, a scarf throw around her head and cascading onto her shoulders imitated the hair Marsca had in her youth. Now, the only hair Marsca had was the wispy white strands that were cropped close to her head. Her gloved hands rested against Elizaveta’s arms and a lost look overtook her bright blue eyes. “Is everything alright?” Elizaveta asked the older woman.

“You have some work to do, young lady,” Marsca replied, shedding her plum colored coat and hanging it onto the coat rack beside the doorway. “You have to perform a solo, apparently.”

Elizaveta’s eyebrows scrunched up. “A solo?” She felt her stomach drop.

Marsca hummed in agreement. “Yes. They said they’re sending someone to evaluate you and see which group to put you in.” Marsca handed her gloves and scarf to Elizaveta, who looked down at them in confusion and then walked over to the coat rack to hang them for the ignorant woman.

“They have groups?” Elizaveta questioned. She felt her mind swirling and tried to keep herself from falling over from the light-headedness which pressured against her temples.

Marsca hummed again. “Of course they do! The first group are the ones who perform, the second group are the understudies. I would get to practicing if I were you.” At this, Elizaveta turned to face Marsca only to see she was giving her a cynical look.

Eliza raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think I’ll be put in the first group,” she stated, her voice icy.

Marsca shrugged nonchalantly and recede back to the chair next to her little desk. She plopped down, smoothing out her pale white locks with her veiny hand. “Not with the way your _petit allégro_ is looking. The _coupé_ is all wrong. You look like you’re trying to stay on _pointe_ when you’re doing it.”

Elizaveta felt her cheeks redden and she dug her nails into her palms. “My _petit allégro_ is fine, Marsca. I’ve been working on it for three years now.”

Marsca picked up a pen and started to jot down things, ignoring Elizaveta entirely. Elizaveta crossed her arms and clenched her hands into fists, trying to keep her face from heating up any more. She bit her lip and dared to speak up: “What are you writing?”

“Things you need to improve on before you can start to create a solo,” Marsca mumbled.

Elizaveta raised her eyebrows. “You’re making _me_ create the solo? Isn’t it your job to create these dances?” She felt fear bubbling up in her chest and tried to push it down but to no avail. _I can’t make this dance_ , she thought. _It won’t be graceful enough for them. They want perfection._

Marsca continued to write various terms on the pages. Elizaveta caught sight of the word _pointe_ and opened her mouth to protest. She was cut off by Marsca’s harsh voice. “These people want to see the way you view ballet, Elizaveta. They could care less about whether you can follow the steps to any of the classic ballets. They want your dance to be in your style of ballet.”

“And improving my _pointe_ , which I perfected _ten years ago_ is supposed to portray my style of ballet? I’m not a perfectionist like you,” Elizaveta said, walking to the front of the desk and leaning against it. She looked at her arms; they were taut with small, compact muscles protruding through the thin, soft fabric of her gray leotard. Her back was also getting broader and firmer with every hard session of dance she pushed herself through. Was her style graceful and gentle, or strong and poised? Hell, she was a ballerina with arms as strong as a man’s; she couldn’t be graceful like this.

Marsca simply huffed and ripped the paper out of her notepad, handing it to Elizaveta. “You need to start perfecting these positions and movements. You’re not confident enough when you deliver these in your dances. Stay consistent and be bold in every movement you make,” said Marsca as Elizaveta plucked the piece of thin paper from her hand. Elizaveta’s eyes ran over her scrawled handwriting, taking in the French terms with a look of offense on her face.

Her lips parted into an O and she looked up angrily. “Marsca, this is ridiculous. It’s all fundamental—positions I learned when I was seven and eight are on this list!”

“You were a ballerina then, and you’re a ballerina now. You must perfect those and draw forth the innocence you indulged in when you were just a little girl. That’s what made you the dancer you are today,” Marsca said, waving her hand in an almost dismissive gesture. Elizaveta bit her tongue, trying to think of a way to tell her she didn’t want to be a child again. She didn’t want to be awake at night, afraid of the darkness and always running from the next monster chasing was after her. She didn’t want to relive the absence of her mother or the collapse of her father. She wanted to stay nineteen, far in the future and almost away from Budapest. 

“I’ll do it my way, thank you very much,” Elizaveta replied sharply, shoving the paper in her pocket hastily. Her fingers lingered on the edges of the paper before taking them out of her pocket and finally stepping away. She need air. It was cold yet stuffy inside the small studio. She looked from Marsca one more time, relishing in the disappointed look on her face before letting her feet take her out of the studio.

The National Library was close by. It was the perfect place to start writing a routine.

…

The night was cold. 

She had walked to the bus, bundled in her warm coat and cursing the thin fabric of her dance skirt. Some people gave this mismatched girl a sideways look, but nothing more than three seconds. Elizaveta had gotten on the bus, bag at her side. 

The ride would be long enough that she could finish the last few step sequences in her dance. It had taken her until nightfall to even become this close to being done. The notebook had had it’s pages ripped out and scrawled over so many times, she felt bad for the poor thing. A few seams in the spine had managed to come undone as well, leaving her with a rather floppy book. Nevertheless, she was determined to finish. Leaning her head against the window, she continued to write down French terms.

She didn’t fully understand the terms. She had never been interested enough to know their literal meaning, and so when Marsca had translated them into Hungarian for her one day, she had been confused even more. The words lacked meaning to her—they were simply signals for what movement she had to complete. Besides, French was overrated—just about everyone could speak it, so what did it matter if she knew it?

It was fun to translate the words, though. In school, she had learned French, but speaking it was a whole different story. Elizaveta was, however, very smart when it came to German and English. They had come so naturally to her that by the time she was eighteen, she had become fluent in both. Her father, of course, had helped with some of the German; his father and him been in business with many Austrians before the the Great War, and often found themselves selling lumber to them. That is, before coal became more popular amongst the city-dwellers. Now, Elizaveta’s father sold the lumber to a few elderly couples and poor families who could afford the wood over coal or oil. 

On the bus, Elizaveta translated her writing neither to German nor English, but rather, to Russian.

Her father had taught her some Russian she had picked up when they lived in Leningrad for a short time. Her mother had been apart of the ballet Moscow, but after she had been born, the small family moved to Leningrad, towards a less central area of Russia. 

Elizaveta moved a piece of hair from her face and concentrated, scribbling down various Russian words. Her handwriting when using the Russian alphabet rivaled that of a five year old’s.

Nevertheless, she let her mind make up the sentences, scrawling her simple thoughts down in the little Russian she knew. _After a long day, I am tired. I want to sleep. I want to love._ She didn’t know how to phrase the last sentence in Russian, so she wrote it down in English instead: _Each day, I feel stuck in Budapest._ The paper looked back at her, a messy, multilingual book about herself she had written in four sentences.

It was times like this when she missed her mom. If there were any mistakes, she would’ve let Elizaveta know. 

Elizaveta shut the book after reading over her finished routine and rested her head against the window, shutting her eyes. 

… 

When she got home, her father was drunk.

She slipped in the house quietly, looking on as her father sat by the radio. He was slouched over two glasses, both filled with different kinds of whiskey. However, her father had decided to drink from the bottle instead, seeing as he was holding one by the neck in his sweaty hands. There were pictures scattered over the table, the same ones he always looked at. They were of earlier times, before Elizaveta was born and slightly afterward as well. She knew the pictures by heart. 

The one he was currently holding was the one of him and her mother standing side by side in front of their old house. Her mother was smiling, something unusual for the time, and her father had a small grin on his face. He had a crutch on his arm to prop up his weak body. Elizaveta rubbed the side of her face as she recalled the tank shrapnel he had told her about; it had lodged itself into the side of his leg, leaving him unable to move for two months. Thankfully, he regained his ability to walk, but the scar left behind was gruesome.

Her eyes lingered on the photo for a moment longer, specifically on her pregnant mother, before she turned away and silently tiptoed into her room. 

Elizaveta sighed in relief, stripping off her coat and smoothing out the static from her long hair. She threw the notebook on her bed and and then collapsed into the pillows.

She laid there, green eyes staring at the ceiling, gnawing her lower lip, and craving something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Elizaveta rolled over, restless. There were a few times when she hadn’t been quiet enough and her father had caught her coming home too late for his liking. He had thrown things at her, bottles of alcohol, vases, picture frames, or plates. More than once he had grabbed her and thrown her into the wall, the earliest time being when she was about nine or so. Even then, she was never sure what made him so unfathomably angry at her. He would scream so loud she would hide under her bed when she could still fit. The neighbors always seemed to understand, though they never said anything to her father. They protected her after the fact, as though they were trying to teach her this was the life she would live and there was nothing she could change. 

Nowadays, Elizaveta was almost certain she had evaded his drunk rages enough time that he had forgotten his daughter even existed. Only through a tipsy haze did he ever address her. And even then, Elizaveta’s name became her late mother’s.

Elizaveta wasn’t aware of the tears running down her face until she noticed a blur in her vision. She sighed shakily and rubbed them away, knowing she couldn’t be too loud for fear of being noticed. It was late and she wanted to sleep; that’s why she was crying. People always said they became emotional after a long day of hard work. 

So she shut her eyes and tried to think about what Vienna would be like.

…

_She was taken back to cold day in the middle of December. The war had been finished for a year, but the ruins of the land still remained. It was snowing outside their small house in St. Petersburg—Leningrad, at the time. The families had been pushing them to leave, not for their sake, but simply because the neighbors never liked them. Hungarians and Russians were fighting just a year ago, and now these foreign Hungarians and their little newborn were squatting on Russian land?_

_It wasn’t the best of situations._

_But the families were pushing the Hédervárys to leave because the mother of the small family, had come down with a nasty case of the Spanish flu._

_But this was only what Elizaveta was told as a young teen._

_She didn’t remember this. She was looking down on herself as a newborn, swaddled in the crib, crying because she hadn’t eaten in a few hours. Her mother had been far too weak to attempt to feed her. Her father was scurrying around, trying to tend to both the baby and his sick wife all at once. He limped, but no longer did he sport a crutch. His beard had grown out, hair slick with grease. It was hard to determine the last time he’d looked in a mirror, given his appearance._

_Her eyes remained on her mother, a picturesque vision of a women she can only remember through black and white pictures. She wished she hadn’t been such an unhappy baby, because she wanted to hear the words her mother was mumbling and not the loud cries of a baby._

_Her father rushed over, pressing his ear against her lips. “What was that,_ kedves _*?” he asked gently. Any loud noises and she’d surely faint. “Say it louder?”_

_“Elizaveta,” she said, this time her voice echoing through the room. The snow outside froze in place and Elizaveta suddenly felt cold. She looked around and the house was crumbling. No long was the baby crying. She looked back to her mother only to find her a few inches in front of her, looking at her in awe. Elizaveta jumped as her mother put her cold hand on her face._

_She stared, her ghostly figure shimmering as the house fell apart. “He is misguided, yet he wants everything. Don’t give it to him.”_

_Elizaveta looked t her, fear coursing through her blood and causing her heart to beat erratically. “Who?” she asked, whispering._

_This time, her mother did make eye contact with her and her eyelashes fluttered. “Vienna is different. But you know who to trust.”_

_Before Elizaveta could snap at her mother for being so vague, the house caved in, taking the family with it. Elizaveta plunged into darkness, the only sounds her heavy, scared breathing._

…

When she woke up, it was bright out, and she was sweating under her mound of blankets. She hastily threw them off of her body, not caring that they landed on the dusty floor, and baksing in the sweet relief of the cold air in her room.

She acknowledged her dream, but didn’t think too much about it. There was no point in reminiscing over the same dream she’d been having since she was eleven. 

But she did think about the new part of it. Her mother talking about someone being… mislead? She was already starting to forget what her mother had told her. She did, however, keep one word in her mind: Vienna. 

That was what she was going to hold on to. Because if her mother was mentioning Vienna to her in a dream, then surely it was a good omen. 

Elizaveta rolled out of bed, not bothering to brush her hair. She figured she could stop by Marsca’s and bother her for a bath. But then again, did she really want to ask this of Marsca? Sure, she had dropped by the neighbors and Marsca’s when she was younger, asking them to let her use their baths. But now that she had gotten older, she had found it was harder to keep asking them. They had assured her it wasn’t a big deal, but she felt the need to show she was an adult now, and she could pay for her own cleanliness at a washhouse if need be. 

But even then, she could only afford ten minutes at a washhouse, and scrubbing her annoyingly long hair took up almost all of the time. 

Elizaveta sighed, running a hand through her hair. Maybe it was time to chop it all off. She looked down at the ends where they touched her lower back and tried to remember the last time she’d cut it. 

_Yes_ , Elizaveta thought. _It’s time to get rid of this ugly hair._ She took her big overcoat off of it’s hanger, stepped into her boots and packed her bag full of clothes she would wear later. There was a practice skirt, pale pink leotard, and, of course, her shoes. Although her pointe shoes were worn down and she needed a new pair, she still brought them. Besides, if she was accepted into Vienna, she’d surely get new ones.

The thought hit her again. Vienna. She had less than a week to practice. She silently cursed Marsca for not telling her about this sooner. 

Elizaveta rushed out the door, catching a glimpse of her father sprawled out on the couch in a deep sleep only alcohol could induce upon him. 

_Pointe_ , she thought, remembering Marsca’s words about how she needed to practice. She was stubborn, and Marsca’s advice was so annoying sometimes. Practicing all of the fundamentals would take up at least three days before she would be strong enough to work on her actual solo. Although they were basic, something in the back of her mind kept telling her this was how it was supposed to be. Basic. Simple. Elegant. _I can work on that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kedves = lover/dear/darling
> 
> there's chapter 1! hope you enjoyed! i'm really excited to write the next one :) reviews and comments cost 0$ and really help me to keep going<3
> 
> much love,  
> tate

**Author's Note:**

> I promised, and so I deliver.  
> Here's the prequel to _Nightingale_ that I have been promising and putting off for AGES!  
>  I hope you all enjoy it :) Reviews and comments cost 0$ and really help me to keep going <3
> 
> thanks for reading! much love,  
> tate <3


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